


Of Coffee Beans and Green Tea Leaves

by Se7en_devils



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Cute Ending, Fluff, Light-Hearted, M/M, Professor!Spock, Romance and Humor, barista!jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Se7en_devils/pseuds/Se7en_devils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The progression of a relationship, through Coffee Beans and Green Tea Leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Coffee Beans and Green Tea Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> Well, first off, Happy K/S day! This fic is a bit on the late-ish side but, oh well. For those of who follow [Cannedebonbon's](http://www.cannedebonbon.tumblr.com) tumblr, this fic and a lot of the ideas/events in this fic have been very largely inspired by the series of prompts/pieces of art that she's been posting lately (because apparently every original fic idea I have is stuck in the pit that is my hard drive, never to be seen again). For those who don't follow her, do it now. Like, seriously. Her artwork is amazing and fantastic and better than anything I could ever write and hopefully I have done her ideas justice. With that being said though, keep in mind that this fic is currently unbeta-ed, as is. So essentially, all mistakes are mine and feel free to correct me since this thing is probably riddled with them. Oh well, I hope you enjoy the fluffy, smushy sweetness that is this fic nontheless!

Destiny.

An interesting, if not unfounded hypothesis.  Some postulated that destiny was theory and those ‘some’ were wrong.  Destiny was hardly a theory - evolution was a theory and gravity was a theory - destiny was merely wishful thinking.   And this, this doctrine of wishful thinking, was one of the few things in life that could be certain and one of many things in life that Spock knew to be true.  He knew that the ideal of interconnected fates was absurd and he recognized that a world of twining red strings was impractical.  An infantile notion, at best.

He believed in what he could see, anything else was fantasy until proven otherwise.  And if that meant that sometimes things happened for no other reason than simply just because, then so be it.  To think anything otherwise would be illogical in and of itself; simply because Spock was ruled by rational thought did not necessarily mean the universe and the laws governing it were.  Sometimes there was no explanation. 

“Hey there handsome.  Come here often?”

Sometimes events simply…happened. 

Spock’s eyes flicked upwards, gaze cold and unimpressed as he took in a messy green apron with _Enterprise Café_ embroidered on the front and a cheeky grin that seemed to hold no shame.  Those two things spoke volumes to the half-Vulcan, combined with the manner in which the barista was lazily leaning against the counter.  He did not even extend the courtesy of asking for Spock’s order, too wrapped up in letting his bright blue eyes roam his body first.

“I would like a medium Chai Tea with soy milk, please.”

A laugh rippled from the barista-a blond male with an unnaturally wide smile and who could not have been any more than twenty-five, “You didn’t even answer my question.”

“Seeing as how we have never encountered one another in the course of our respective, daily activities I should think the answer to your query would be fairly obvious,” Spock icily responded.  His voice was just about as unimpressed as he felt. 

“Well, well,” The blond strummed his fingers against the counter in rhythmic taps, still not having moved from his spot.  Inefficiency at its finest.  “I’ve never meet a sassy Vulcan before – or any Vulcan actually.  That a species-wide thing, or just you?”

 If it was at all possible, Spock’s posture tensed by a tenfold as an expression of brief irritation flashed over his features.  It was an expression which, according to Nyota, had been dubbed his _bitchface_ by Gaila and although Spock did not quite understand the social implications surrounding that particular colloquialism yet, he did understand that the proper reaction was to feel insulted.  And he was.  “Fascinating. My acquaintances did not mention an incompetent staff when they referred me to this establishment.  Perhaps I will have to gather a greater number of recommendations the next time they suggest such a similar endeavor.”

Another laugh. Another so called bitchface.

“At least you don’t deny the sass,” The blond snickered with a flick of his wrist before pushing himself off the counter, “Anything I can get you, handsome?  Which, by the way, you should be flattered; I don’t hand out compliments like dollar bills, y’know?”  The blonde’s eyes were sparkling and that, combined with his disconcerting grin, spoke volumes more than any words could. 

And it took everything within Spock not to mention that; that the barista’s gaze told an entirely different story than his words did. “As I previously said,” And when he spoke his voice was most certainly not bitter.  Not even a little. Because that would have been unsightly and Vulcans were never unsightly.  “I would like a medium Chai Tea Latte with soy milk and either a Blueberry or Orange-Cranberry muffin.  I will defer to your… _questionable_ opinion on which.”

“I personally like the double chocolate chip muffin,” He answered with a wink that left no room for misconception, causing the half-Vulcan to instantly bristle.  His jaw twitched and his eyebrows wooshed upwards; Spock rather enjoyed the comforts of sobriety, if he were to say so himself.

“The Cranberry-Orange, then.”

“Aww, you’re no fun. For here or to go?”

“To go.”

Most _certainly_ to go.

“A shame,” The barista murmured more to himself than anyone else as he pulled out a take-away cup and began writing on it in sharpie.  “Let me guess, you’re a lawyer.  You definitely have that lawyer vibe about you.”

“The implication that you have had enough exposure to lawyers to have gained the ability to discern between what constitutes as a ‘lawyer vibe’ and what does not in a person you have just meet is concerning.  Not to mention it speaks loudly as to the state of your criminal records.”

The barista paused for a moment, with a milk carton in hand and a curious expression on his face.  He shook his head and let out an airy chuckle, “You’re a riot, you know that?”

The half-Vulcan cocked his head to the side; how…odd.  Often times when insulted, humans did not typically chuckle.  Or smile, for that matter.  Fascinating.

“No need to worry those pretty little ears of yours though.  I get my exposure from customers, thank you very much.  Cross my heart and hope to die on that one.  Lawyers, businessmen, professors, traders; they like the family owned, small town, Indie Coffee Shop vibe.  Very early 2000s, don’t ya’ think?”

“Perhaps.”

“Exactly. So…a lawyer?”

“Professor,” Spock was correcting before he could think to do otherwise.  It was an unfortunate error on his part, caused by a brief lapse into what Admiral Pike called the ‘leaping before thinking’ mode of thought-Spock would have to ensure such instances did not become habit.

“See what I mean?  You guys love the small shop feel.”

The half-Vulcan nodded his head in polite acknowledgment of the words, but gave no true response as he pulled a PADD from his messenger bag.  The sound of an electric whisk whirred in the background, an almost soothing buzz against a forefront of ungraded assignments and yet-to-be-written exams.  In a little less than a week mid-terms were to be proctored and although Spock had _intended_ to finish writing his two days ago, the circumstances had not been in his favor.  Naturally, he blamed Nyota.  And Gaila.  But mostly Nyota – even if it was for his own supposed good.  A hypothesis which Spock vehemently denied, instead strongly believing that finishing his exam before he gave himself an ulcer would be far more advantageous to a movie night (or nights) with friends.  But then again Spock also believed that arguing with Nyota was a moot point, even if her taste in movies was rather lackluster.  Whoever decided that _Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz_ , and _The World’s End_ were classics clearly preferred quantity over quality.

“One medium Chai Tea Latte with soy milk and a Cranberry-Orange muffin to go,” A paper bag was passed between them with a crinkle - the wink that came with it noticed but brushed to the side - and a throw-away, to-go cup extended to Spock.  “That’ll be seven credits.  Name’s Jim, Jim Kirk by the way, in case you’re wondering.”

“I was not, in case you were also wondering.”  A chip was given to the barista – Jim - as Spock reached for the cup, only for the blond to quickly pull it away with a teasing ‘tsk’ and a sly smirk.  His eyes were brightly twinkling, his lips moving with words that suggested he hadn’t even bothered to listen to Spock’s response:

“And what about you, handsome?  They have first names on your world?”

A pause.

A pause before Spock reached forward and sharply snatched the cup from Jim’s lazy grip.   “Thank you for your services, Mr. Kirk,” Brisk, short and curt - as Spock threw the words over his shoulder, one foot already out the door and the other so close to joining it.

And then he was gone. 

A bit of a mistake, perhaps, he would later think - because if he hadn’t been in such a rush to leave, he might’ve noticed it sooner.  And if he had noticed it sooner then he wouldn’t have had to endure Pike chuckling as he gave that cheeky grin, or endure Gaila falling over in fits of laughter and Nyota not-so-subtly snickering behind her hand, all of their eyes trained on the empty cup coffee cup sitting on his desk.  The coffee cup with a cardboard sleeve, made distinct by the messy scrawl of black sharpie that clearly read _For Tall, Dark, and Handsome_.

-x-X-x-

A week later, he returned. 

While he still held to his belief that the service had left much to be desired, the Chai Tea had been surprisingly…pleasant.  The muffin had not been unsatisfactory either, and the shop’s atmosphere had been distinctively soothing.  It seemed to be an excellent candidate for a venue to stimulate concentration. 

In the end, it was only rational he return.

“Well, well, well, look who’s back.  I almost thought I had scared you off.”  Jim grinned as he leisurely hopped down from the counter.  He ran his fingers through his hair with a bit of a sigh, but his clearly overjoyed expression did not falter. 

“I assure you, it takes far more than unsatisfactory customer service to frighten me.”

“Still sassy as ever, I see.”

Naturally, Spock refused to comment on that.   And naturally, his brown eyes pointedly avoided the cocky blond, gaze instead choosing to sweep over the décor of the small café.  It was still as soothing as he remembered, the color scheme no doubt attributing to this.  The walls were painted a light, soothing tan and were pleasantly complemented by accent colors of rich purples, deep reds, and homely browns that shone through in the colored borders and plush furniture and dark hardwood floors of the café.  Works of art strategically littered the walls in clever patterns and aesthetically pleasing rows, all of it by local artists and all of it rather impressive.  There was everything from dreary toned realism and brightly hued impressionism to abstract cubism and surreal modernism, and every single one of them was for sale - if Gaila was ever to be believed.  Couches and chairs and tables were comfortably arranged around the lobby - the lobby that was more of a lounge than any lobby Spock was used to, that was - and were set up in relatively small groups that all centered around the small stage at the back of the room.  According to Christopher there was live music on the weekends, independent songs played by largely unrecognized, local bands that left the small café packed with people nonetheless.

Of course that was hardly the case then, with only Spock himself and the blond employee present, but even still… It was not hard to imagine how the small café attracted so many regular patrons.  “I would like a medium ch-”

“-Chai tea with soy milk and an orange-cranberry muffin?”

“I…yes…” Spock found himself almost absently saying, as if lost for words.  Of course, it didn’t help that Jim pretty much looked like the epitome of cockiness, all crossed arms and arrogant grin and raised eyebrows. 

“You sure? I mean, I make a real mean Vulcan Spice Tea if I do say so myself.   If you want I could brew you up some.”

Spock inclined his head, unsure of how to respond to verbal stimuli for the second time in under two minutes.  That had to be some kind of record.  “That would be most…”  But even as he spoke he still seemed to be debating the idea, before finally, “Satisfactory.”

“Great,” Jim clapped his hands together before ducking under the cabinets to dig through their messy depths.   It was actually, for all intents and purposes, rather humorous and a little impressive, because apparently even when head deep into a cabinet, digging for Vulcan tea, Jim Kirk still had something to say.  “I’ve never actually made it for a Vulcan before, so hopefully I don’t fuck up.  _Hopefully.”_

A soft puff of breath came from the professor, an action that would have been a snort on anyone else.  “And that is one sentiment I truly do believe we share, Mr. Kirk.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” He scratched the back of his neck as he kept searching, “So…last week you said you were a professor, right?  What all do you teach?”

“Interspecies Ethics,” he paused, “And Phonology.”

Kirk whistled in what the Vulcan interpreted as admiration as he stood and brought forth several packaged canisters of various spices, “So you’re a linguist then?”

 “Of sorts, I suppose.”

“Man,” He said while pouring hot water from a large thermos into a ceramic mug and placing the spices into a metal strainer.  It had been far too long since Spock had had Vulcan tea that was not replicated, the ingredients often too rare to make from scratch.  “I love linguists, the _things_ you guys can do with your mouths,” he whistled, “And I doubt you’re no exception, am I right?”

And if that didn’t have Spock instantly stiffening and turning green, then nothing would.  Not even Kirk’s expression, as licentious and suggestive and so very human as it was.  Combined, that expression and those words left Spock with nothing to say.  Speechless and unsure, but only for a moment.  “Many say I am unparalleled in my field.”

A beat.

One where Kirk almost seemed too shocked for words - until a sharp bark of laughter was released, as if the pause had never even been there. “Color me surprised; even when you’re flustered you’re sassy.  That’s kinda cute.”

“Vulcans are hardly cute.”

“Well then maybe it’s just you.”

“ _I_ am hardly cute.”

“I’m inclined to disagree, Mr…” He dropped off, waiting for Spock to fill in the blank as his grin only grew.  Perhaps there was a correlation, Spock was beginning to think; the more exasperated and the more flustered he himself became, the wider Kirk’s grin grew in response.  A noteworthy, if not entirely disconcerting hypothesis.

“My name should be of no importance.”

Blue eyes rolled.  A common expression of human exasperation, as Spock understood it.  “Small talk, Mr. Vulcan, small talk. But that’s fine, don’t tell me and I’ll just have you to call you _pointy_ from now on.”

An eyebrow was raised at that, “That would not be an inaccurate description.”

“You’re no fun; I do hope you know that.”

“If I am no fun, then why do you insist on making conversation with me, _Jim_?”

The barista opened his mouth to respond before instantly snapping it shut a second later with a slightly wide-eyed look.  “I…”  He slowly began in a voice that suggested he had no earthly idea where he was going with that, “I should probably check the tea.”  A convenient thing to say, Spock noted, as Jim turned his back and effectively killed that particular conversation.  And before it even had a chance to start too.  “It’s ready.”

“Thank you, Mr.  Kirk,” The Vulcan inclined his head, “And if it is no trouble, a cranberry-orange muffin, please.”

A nod and a sliding pane of glass later and Spock had his cup of spiced tea and his cranberry-orange muffin.  He also had a barista muttering something about the _stupid new POS system_ , a scrunched up receipt he didn’t quite bother to read, and an account with six credits less than he had had yesterday to go along with it.  Oddly enough, Spock was okay with all of that.

“Ah shit, sorry.”

“Excuse me?”

The blond glanced towards the mug sitting on the counter and the plate right next to it, before letting his eyes flick over to Spock and the usual raised eyebrows of doom, “Didn’t think to ask you for here or to go, because I assumed and we all know what assuming does.  Well, correction, usually it makes an ass of you and me but this time it just makes me seem like a narcissistic stalker who just assumed you’d wanna eat here because you just enjoy my company that much or something?  I don’t know.  I mean, I can put the tea in a to-go cup and the muffin in a bag if you want, it’s not a problem.  It really isn’t and you pro-”

“Mr. Kirk, I believe you are suffering from a human ailment often known as rambling.  Perhaps you should consult your doctor.”

“Oh.” An airy chuckle was given as he scratched the back of his neck almost nervously.  His shoulders seemed to slump forward, breathe whooshing from his lungs in one big breath and lips upturning into a smile that looked almost a little genuine, “Yeah, sorry.  I do that.  A lot.”

“So it seems.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” He replied, followed by a beat that almost wasn’t a beat.  To someone who didn’t study Phonology, perhaps. “ _Shavt’ak.”_

_Pardon?_

Spock’s limbs almost immediately froze as his eyes widened and his gaze wasted no time in flicking to the receipt in his hand; he should not have been surprised.  He was, but he should not have been.  Because scrawled across his receipt in black sharpie it was there, an Andorian endearment.  Big and bold and…

“Hesitance does not suit you.” Spock’s eyes flicked up to glimmering supernovas, “As for your knack towards assumptions, no apologies are necessary.  I do not believe I am too terribly against the ideal of eating here.”

-x-X-x-

The fourth time he came in, it was raining.

Dripping down in sheets that were not quite yet torrents but well beyond the point of drizzles, it was enough to force Spock to use his messenger bag as a shield.  And definitely enough to soak said messenger bag through - not that should have been a surprise given that it _was_ April and it _was_ San Francisco and it _was_ a Thursday.

Because apparently that was a rule; if Spock were ever to have a particularly troublesome day then that day would most certainly be a Thursday.  No exceptions.

“Little too rainy for your tastes, _sweetheart_?”

Spock looked up, dropping his wet messenger bag onto a nearby table as he watched Jim walk in from the back.  The blond was wiping his hands on a white towel and his lips curved upwards into a smile, something Spock pointedly ignored.

“I do not…” He forced himself not to grimace, especially when he noticed his hair was clinging to his face in wet clumps.  Disheveled, the tip of his nose was flushed green from the cold and his forehead was riddled with dripping drops of water.  Thankfully his sweater had managed to escape the altercation fairly dry.  Or at least, dry enough.  “Vulcans are not naturally inclined to enjoy the presence of water.”

A shiver ran down his spine that could not be stopped, the feeling of water dripping down his hands uncomfortably numbing against his touch telepathy.  His surroundings felt so…vague and blurred and nondescript, as if he had lost one of his senses.  In a way, he sort of had. 

“No?  That’s a shame.  There’s nothing better than just going out and walking in the rain.”

“That does not-” But before Spock could even think about finishing, his body pitched forward with a short, abrupt sneeze.  High pitched and unexpected, the sound was embarrassingly less like any sneeze he had ever heard and far more like a squeak.   His ears flushed green and immediately Spock cleared his throat, his eyes cautiously drifting up to meet Jim’s.

“Oh my god, you totally sneeze like a kitten,” He snickered.  The blonde’s fingers played across the register’s screen, lightly tapping here and there, but never in a way that kept him from beaming at Spock.  “And you say you aren’t cute.”

Spock, who was currently bristling, spine straightening and eyes narrowing.  I was an effect which would have been rather poignant if not for the blush on his cheeks.  “Vulcans are _not_ cute.”

“Mhhmm, whatever you say.”  A flick of the wrist was given and a dismissive noise released, “Because that was definitely the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen and I’m, like, ninety-ninety percent sure your spirit animal is a kitten, by the way.   If I rubbed your ears, would you purr for me?”

“…A spirit animal?”

“Yeah, it’s an animal that describes your inner personality or something.  I'm not too sure, really, it’s just one of _those_ things, y’know?”

Spock slowly inclined his head, “I do not, however…” He paused to consider Jim, “I do believe that if we are going to properly discuss this topic, then it must be noted that there is a sixteen-point-eight-six-out of-twenty-one probability that your spirit animal is a sloth.”

Jim gave a skeptical look, “You so made that up.”

“’Making up’ statistics would be illogical.”

“Fair enough, but…a sexy sloth, right?”

The half-Vulcan testily looked at Kirk from under a crinkled brow, “Jim…” he warned, his tone somewhere in between that of a mother whose child refused to stop eating glue and Lego pieces and that of really anyone who had ever felt the urge to throttle someone.

The barista chuckled, “Y'know, that reminds me that I still haven’t gotten a first name from you. That’s a problem, even if it's nothing but a slight oversight on your part, of course,” He finished with undue dramatics, smile widening when he saw the eyebrow that was steadily rising towards Spock’s bang.

“Hardly an accident, I can assure you.”

 The immediate pang of laughter that was given was almost deafening to Spock in its volume and the smile that accompanied it almost blinding in its brightness. “Oh my, cute, sassy, and single-what more could a guy want?”

“I will ignore the fallacies in that statement in favor of reminding you- _achoo!-_ in favor of reminding you that- _achoo!_ -that despite your own loose ethics, not everyone feels so similarly, Mr. Kirk.” Spock finally finished after a long string of sneezes, a failed attempt to smooth his soaking hair down, and a brief cataloguing of the fact that the blackboard behind the counter most certainly did read what Spock thought it read.

_Customers, today your barista is: 1) a flaming gay 2) single_

“’A Flaming gay’?”

Jim froze a bit, eyes widening and mouth half frozen between a smirk and a frown.  “Oh, that.  Just,” He chuckled, “ignore it.  One of the guys, Sulu, was dicking around.  He does that.”

“I see.” Even though he really didn’t, since ‘flamingly gay’ and ‘dicking around’ meant nothing to Spock besides two additional terms he now had to add to the five page list of colloquialisms he did not, and possibly never would, understand.  And yes, that was an actual thing - one of the few hardcopy items Spock actually owned, tacked to the wall behind his desk as it was.  It went almost perfectly with his nine hundred page, hardback copy of _A Guide Of Translations: From Spock to Standard in Only a Thousand Easy Steps,_ written by Nyota Uhura, co-authored by Gaila Vro, edited by Christopher Pike, and received by Spock as a Christmas gift. 

Or so said writer, co-author and editor claimed.  Three years later and Spock still questioned the validity of that; whether something that essentially made a mockery _(“All in jest, Spock, I promise.  All in jest.”)_ of himself could truly be considered a gift or not was highly debatable.  Not that that would change anything anyways, since Gaila would still call it her proudest work of art and Spock would still reserve it as the only actually printed book he owned.

Fascinating, really.

A chuckle tore Spock from his thoughts and almost instantly had his eyes flicking up from the floor.  Kirk’s eyes were shining as usual, however if this time the shine was just a tad hopeful, then Spock didn’t notice.  “I mean, ignore it unless you wanna take advantage of my apparent flaming gayness and my definite singleness, in which case pay attention to that blackboard all you want.”

“I’ll have a large, sugar-free, decaf Ginger Snap Spice cappuccino.”

“You wound me.  Truly, you do,” Jim playfully sighed, hand resting against his heart in mock hurt.

But, of course, that did nothing to impress Spock, who simply raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips in a way that was noticeable enough to make a point, but not so much to accuse him of anything.   Because if there was one thing Vulcans did not do, it was definitely purse their lips in reply. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look, you know you love me.” There was no roam to reply, though, before Jim was back to talking.  Not a bad thing, by Spock’s definition. “Just the decaf cappuccino?”

A glance was spared towards the window and the rain still cascading down its surface.  “No.  A Cranberry- _achoo-_ Orange muffin as well,” Spock managed to say past the sneeze that still far too squeak-ish for his liking.

“Okay, so I have a Cranberry-Orange muffin and a large, sugar-free, decaf Ginger Spice cappuccino, that right?”

“No.  A large, sugar free, decaf, _no foam_ cappuccino.” Which was apparently not the right thing to say.  At all.  Not when Kirk’s head instantly snapped up, eyes scrutinizing and head cocked to the side and lips pursed-

“ _Gurl,”_ He sassily chided with a look that seemed to scream ‘ _idiot’_ ; Spock imagined that it was somewhat reminiscent to his own, Gaila dubbed _bitchface_.  Except when Spock did it, he didn’t cock his hips to the side or cross his arms over his chest, both of which actions that were often associated with young Terran women.  Actually, the whole display in general – facial expressions and body language combined – seemed rather similar to that demographic.  A mockery perhaps?  Perhaps. “You did not just order a no foam cappuccino.”

Or just Jim…being Jim.

Spock raised a condescending eyebrow, hardly amused by the feminine display even as his own cheeks began to color green.  Again.  “It should be noted that I- _achoo-_ am _obviously_ not and _obviously_ never have been of the female persuasion, thank you Mr. Kirk.  And as for my order, I do believe that is- _achoo-_ exactly- _achoo-_ what I ordered.”  Spock paused, only barely managing to hold back a grimace.  Nothing could kill sarcasm quite like a fit of short, squeaky sneezes that were supposedly kitten-like in cuteness.  “Or perhaps are your hearing facilities failing you, along with your ability to differentiate genders?” 

“If anything is failing anyone, it’s your _mental_ facilities failing _you, pointy,”_ The blond emphatically shot back as he waved his sharpie in the air, even making a distinct point to jab it in Spock’s direction a few times.  Just for good measure, “Y’know what a no foam cappuccino is, Mr. know-It-All?  It’s a latte.”

_Oh._

Well, so much for ever listening to a Gaila Vro patented suggestion again.  ( _“Ooh, ooh, ooh!  Order a no foam cappuccino, those are_ the _best.  Hey, don’t give me that look!  I dated a barista a few years back, so I totally know these things, okay?”)._ Of course, that was also the third time in April alone that Spock had told himself that, never mind the fifty additional times since the beginning of the year and the god knows how many times (easily in the four-digit range) since they first meet.  Conclusion: Gaila Vro was not to be trusted.  Ever.

And Spock was not to listen to her.  Also, ever.

The results were too consistent to be anything else; listening to Gaila led to unpleasant consequences and Spock highly doubted that she was exactly innocent in any of it.  It was, perhaps, one of the many reasons why Spock questioned their odd, confusing friendship - a relationship that would've been dissolved long ago if not for one simple factor; Spock was not human.  Because if he had been human, then surely he would've felt embarrassment - and not just then, but any time that Gaila embarked on one of her escapades (which was often, mind you).  But Spock was not human, he was Vulcan and therefore the ideal of embarrassment was null.  Because to Vulcans, embarassment simply did not exist.  Not even a little.  Not even when their cheeks were flushed green, the tip of their nose speckled emerald, and the tips of their ears blooming jade.  Not even when they were shifting uncomfortably and leaning over with a fit of sneezing.  Again.

“For someone so smart, sometimes you’re kinda stupid.” The words, however, were not as biting as they would usually be made to be.  As Jim threw the towel hanging from his apron onto the back counter, there was this smug little look in his eyes – but there was also what one might call exasperated affection. 

“I-”

“Nope.” A hand was held out, palm out – a universal sign for _stop_ and a somewhat less universal sign for _Stop and Shut the Fuck Up.  Now –_ and a tsking noise given.

“Ji-”

“What, didn’t hear me the first time?  No.”

“Bu-”

“I don’t care.”

“You can’t-”

“Yes I can and I will.  Because you know what you’re gonna do?   You’re gonna go sit your ass down, shut the hell up and you’re gonna let me decide what you’re ordering because apparently you don’t know shit about coffee.  Now, I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt and say that you’re sick and that’s screwing with your head-”

“Vulcans do not get sick _-achoo!_ -Jim.”

“Well apparently half-Vulcans do,” The barista shot back with a voice just as sardonic as the one Spock had thrown his way.  His hips were still cocked to the side and his arms still crossed over his chest in that way that clearly said _do not argue with me, you will lose._

Which was a shame and a slight waste of effort too, since Spock had never been great at deciphering human idiosyncrasies anyways.  “Considering my physiology is primarily Vulcan it is illogical- _achoo-_ illogical to think that- _achoo-_ that my- _achoo-_ my- _achooachooachoo-_ my…” A pause that was emphasized by a shiver rang between them, before Spock looked down.  “Very well.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Spock ignored the comment.  He released a heavier than normal breath and even if Jim might’ve been right - perhaps sitting was for the best, as his balance slightly swayed too far to the side and it took grasping at a nearby chair to correct the error – that did not mean Spock had to necessarily acknowledge it.  Not as his eyes fell closed and his legs curled up so he could sit cross-legged in his chair; a meager attempt at productivity.  Meditation – even if only on a rudimentary level of _Tiltra_ – was better than simply sitting there. 

The low hum of the rarely used replicator, the baritone grinding of the always-used coffee grinder, the popping of the espresso maker, the thrum of the fridge and ticking of the oven and clanking of dishes and shifting of a person– the gentle background noises that flitted in and out of focus.  They were somewhat reminiscent of tides gently brushing up against a shore; moving back and forth, in and out, to and fro.  They were there and then they weren’t.  Washing away like grains of sand then returning like waves of water.

His hands rested on his folded knees.  His breaths came out in slow, steady puffs. 

In and out.  Concentrate.  Focus.  Humming in the background.  Tranquility.  Serenity.

“ _Achoo!”_

Spock’s meditative state snapped in a second, any and all tranquility that might’ve been gained instantly slipping away as his body lurched forward from the force of the sneeze.  His nose was beginning to run, uncomfortably so, and a pressure was now present in his nasal cavities that had not been there before.  And that was not even mentioning the scratchiness in his throat leftover from that morning – which, if living with a human mother for over seventeen years had taught him anything, that was not a satisfactory sign. 

“You’re cute when you’re put out, y’know?” Came a teasing voice from behind the counter.  Jim was smirking widely, even though his eyes were trained on the latte setting on the counter and the needlepoint pin he was running along its surface.

“You have been commenting on my apparent ‘cuteness’ with alarming frequency, I ask that you correct this.”

Not of course that Jim acted like he was listening to begin with, which meant it was a lost cause anyways.  Which probably wasn’t unusual, since it seemed to Spock that a lot of things were lost causes when it came to James T. Kirk.  “Your Latte’s ready.”

Like the fact that Jim was almost innocently smiling at him from the register, elbows propped up against the counter and his head resting between his two curled up knuckles, and Spock simply knew that whatever it was Jim had done was also a lost cause.  Or at least preventing it was.  At this point, the easiest course of action was to simply stand and take the offered drink – which was exactly what he did.

Easier said than done, though, when Spock actually saw the drink.  He had heard of it before, this odd phenomenon of latte art that dated back several hundreds of years, but he had never expected to be on the receiving end of it.  Then again there were lots of things that Spock had never expected before James T. Kirk happened – like receiving a latte with a heart made of white milk at its center and the words _Mi Amore_ written meticulously across it in something that looked suspiciously like chocolate.  At least now Spock had an answer as to why Jim’s cheeks were slightly flushed red.

“Thank you, Jim,” He said after a long pause, pointedly ignoring anything out of the ordinary ad he picked up the drink with an inclination of his head; it was rude to deny a gift, after all.  Especially…well, especially when it actually tasted _good._

Spock took another sip; his conclusion still stood.  The taste was almost overbearing to his sensitive palate, but not unpleasantly so.  It was a rich mix of spices and sweetness that had him taking several larger than appropriate sips in a row.

“Well?”

“Most satisfactory.”

Instantly Jim’s smile bloomed into an excited grin and every ounce of tension fell from his shoulders in a second.  His eyes were bright as he tilted his head to the side, “Really?”

“I do not believe I stuttered,” Spock managed to murmur in between sips, even if his voice didn’t carry its usual subtle condescension.

“No, you didn’t.”

By the time Spock was three quarters through the Latte and back to sitting at his original table, he felt considerably…better.  Which was vague and not very accurate at all, but oddly appropriate considering the circumstances.  His throat wasn’t so scratchy anymore and the box of tissues Jim had thrown his way hadn’t been used for at least thirty minutes.  His head was lightly buzzing rather than pounding – a far better alternative, as far as the half-Vulcan was concerned – and he could actually talk _without_ being interrupted by poorly timed sneezes. Then again that also could’ve been the hypospray Jim had also thrown his way; who really knew.

“Jim, what flavor latte did you give me?” Spock finally asked before taking another sip (gulp), his usual meticulous grace slightly dulled by…. _something._   

Something which probably had to do with the fact that Kirk was grinning mischievously, an attribute which Spock failed to notice.  Another correlating, and possibly concerning, fact.  “Why, plannin’ on getting it again next time?”

“Per- _achoo-_ haps.”

“It’s chocolate.”

Silence. 

Or Silence from Spock, since Kirk was too busy snickering to himself to be anything near quiet.  And…

“Oh.”

Spock was _almost_ not surprised.

“That…that would explain…” Spock’s cheeks flushed green and he cocked his head to the side in a curious manner.  His eyes were trained on Jim’s, “Thank you.”

Almost.  He was almost not surprised.

-x-X-x-

Spock was many things, unobservant, however, was not one of them. 

He knew that Sundays were never busy.  Very much like he knew that neither were Monday nights, even though Monday mornings were an entirely different matter altogether.  Tuesdays were busy all day but Tuesdays were also the best days to get a muffin.  Wednesdays were quiet in the morning, fairly busy in the afternoon, quiet again in the evening and the best day to get fresh fruit because Wednesdays were also delivery days.   Thursdays were even busier than Monday mornings but Friday mornings were always the worst.  Friday nights were almost always the best.  Saturdays always had a constant flow of patrons, but never enough to be considered truly ‘rushed’ or busy.  Saturdays were also when spice shipments came in, so the options for tea were always the best on a Saturday.

Spock was hardly unobservant by any means, and so by the second week, a routine had formed.  Worked around lectures and classes and planning periods, it had been set sometime after his fifth visit to the establishment, when a work schedule had _somehow_ mysteriously ended up scrawled onto the side of his Chai Tea Latte’s cup sleeve.  The result was a routine of mornings and evenings, of Mondays and Fridays and Saturdays that eventually evolved into Sundays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays too.  All until there wasn’t a single day of the week where Spock didn’t find himself at the _Enterprise Café_.  Until Sunday(a medium Chai Tea Latte with soy milk, for here, with a cranberry-orange muffin on the side) and Monday mornings (Vulcan Spiced Tea, to go, but also with a cranberry-orange muffin) became a must; Tuesday afternoons (the one day Spock often deferred to any of Kirk’s non-chocolate suggestions, also to go, and not once was he disappointed) and Wednesday evenings (Large Chai Tea Latte with soy milk and a Fuji Apple Salad with a side of light Italian dressing, for here) became a given; Thursday mornings (Vulcan Spiced Tea with a rare Blueberry muffin, to go) and Friday evenings (a Veggie Panini and another non-chocolate drink of Kirk’s choice, for here)became only natural and Saturday afternoons (Sash-savas tea, also for here)became a habit of sorts.

It was all rather rational of course, considering his only other alternative was listening to Gaila whine about how he never had any non-replicated food as he tried to ignore the unintentionally pitying glances Nyota always threw his way.  Spock suspected it had something to do with her theory that he needed to “branch out”; a theory she was unfortunately not alone in, since Admiral Pike seemed to have many similar sentiments. 

“Sash-savas tea for…” The young barista paused-a new employee according to a co-worker of Kirk’s-Russian accent fumbling over the intricacies of the Vulcan language before coming to a complete stop, “ban…Sash-savas tea for ban-bang…ban-”

“Sash-savas tea for _Bangwl’_!” Kirk called over the Russian (who was doing a most impressive imitation of a frightened turtle in his embarrassment) with a cheery tone.  Spock said nothing, gave no acknowledgement to Kirk as he took the mug from the Russian’s small, trembling hand and inclined his head when said Russian hurriedly apologized.  It was ultimately a rather rude gesture, so brisk and curt, Spock would later decide with just a hint of guilt.  Rude, but understandable – considering the majority of his concentration was focused on trying not to sigh as Kirk not so very subtly winked at him from the register, his lips forming the word _Bangwl’_ around a teasing grin.

Apparently, Spock was not the only one who had fallen into routine.

Every day there was a new endearment-anything from Romulan ( _e’lev)_ and Ferengi ( _booplop)_ and Orion ( _tahedri-yal)_ to Klingon ( _bangwl’)_ and Deltan (a series of high-pitched clicks and squeaks Jim insisted meant sweetheart) and even Latin ( _ocellus)-_ whether it was on a receipt or a cardboard sleeve.  And every day Jim referred to him by that endearment at least once, more if he was feeling particularly irritating.  Part of it _might_ have been attributed to the fact that Spock had yet to give him his actual name, then again part of it also _might_ have been attributed to the fact that Jim was…well, Jim.

“Have I ever told you that sweater looks good on you?”

Spock’s eyes snapped up from his PADD, unsurprised when he saw a beaming grin, bright blue eyes and a messy apron there to meet him.  “I do not believe you have.”

“You sure?”

The half-Vulcan gave him a pointed glare from under fluttering lashes, “Eidetic memory, Mr. Kirk.”

“Of course, how could I ever forget?” The barista conceded, plopping down in the chair opposite of Spock with a dramatic sigh.  He kicked his feet up on the table in one easy motion, the action almost habit by that point, and chuckled when Spock’s nose just barely scrunched in disgust. 

“Indeed.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Whatever, you cocky bastard,” Jim paused, “But I wasn’t joking, it really does look good on you.  Should wear it more often.”

The reaction to those words was so minute it almost wasn’t there-an imperceptible straightening of his spine, the clenching of his fists, the glimmering in his marginally widened eyes, the slight green on his cheeks-except for someone who bothered to look, and Spock had a sneaking suspicion that Jim would most certainly bother.

“I will endeavor to do so in the future, in that case.”

“Well…I’ll be damned.”  And when those words slipped from his lips, there was a look in Jim’s eyes that Spock could not quite place.  It was almost as if he were assessing him, looking over him with those swirling supernova blue irises of his.  “You wouldn’t happen to be trying to beguile me, would you?”

Spock sipped at his tea, his face easily sliding into its usual unimpressed expression, “Hardly.”

“That’s a shame.”  Jim turned to the professor with an odd gleam in his eyes-a gleam that Spock (quite unfortunately) had grown accustomed to.  “’Cuz if you were then I’d totally have grounds to get a first name from you.  Only the proper thing to do.  Which, speaking of first names, I learned something interesting the other day.”

And if that last sentence wasn’t warning enough, then the grin that came with it most certainly was.  It screamed danger, ultimately meaning Spock’s response screamed caution.  “Oh?”

“Yes, actually.  You never mentioned you taught at the academy.”

A pause of contemplation.  “Did I not?”

“No.  Just that you were a professor that taught Interspecies Ethics and Phonology, nothing about Starfleet though.”

“Indeed.  I assumed you knew, I suppose.” Spock nodded, unsure of how to respond.  Unsure of how Jim was responding.  Because, wasn’t _that_ the reaction that mattered?  For Spock it was all rather inconsequential, what Jim did and did not know, but humans were rarely so nonchalant with such matters.  It was not uncommon for them to become offended when they felt information was being purposefully withheld from them; this Spock knew from firsthand experience. “I apologize, I did-”

But before he could even think of finishing, he was effectively cut off by the sound of a soft laugh, “Hey, it’s not like it’s a big deal or anything.  I mean, you weren’t purposefully hiding it from me, it just never came up in conversation and you’re always wearing your civies, I guess.   Its not surprising when I think about it, you totally have that military vibe.  I just thought it was kinda funny, okay?  And yeah, I was curious too.  My best friend is enrolled at Starfleet and there’s only so many Vulcan professors lurking around-“

“Vulcans do not lurk _.”_

“Yeah,” Jim rolled his eyes, however his smile suggested a certain playfulness behind it, “And they also aren’t supposed to be sassy pricks, but you blew that stereotype right out the door pretty effectively, haven’t you… _Mr. Spock?”_

And that was when Spock’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline.  And when his head tilted to the side and his tea was set on the table and his hands folded on his lap and his gaze just staring.  Staring at the ever-grinning blond and his blue, blue, _blue_ eyes and his thrumming fingers and _tap-tap-tapping_ leg.

“How-”

“Like I said, best friend’s enrolled,” Jim lazily shrugged.  “But don’t think this doesn’t get you off the hook, you’ll always be _bangwl’_ to me.”

“How fortunate.”

Kirk chuckled, “Damn straight, Spock,” he added as an afterthought.  Almost as if testing it on his tongue, seeing how it sounded.  “I like that; Spock.  Sounds good, pass my compliments to whoever, uh…um, named you?”

“Your penchant for speech is spectacular, Jim,” Was the ever-dry response.

“You can be a real asshole sometimes, you know that?”

Spock’s eyes flicked upwards, causing Jim to yell in triumph (“ _An eyeroll!  That was so too an eyeroll, don’t even give me that look!”)_ and the half-Vulcan to give a sharp exhalation of breath (“ _You are being childish, Jim.  Again.”)_ that was almost sharp enough to be a sigh, but not quite. _“_ You have called me an asshole numerous times and yet not once have you attempted to seek out more suitable company.  How curious.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just say I’m lazy and call it day, shall we?  Or you could say I’m a masochist, which could work too.”

And of course, like most things that came out of Kirk’s mouth, _that_ particular statement accomplished nothing productive.  Sending Spock’s eyebrows practically flying into his bangs (Jim swore they might as well take up permanent residence there, with how much he kept flicking them upwards.  Spock of course argued that it was only Jim who elicited that reaction, after which the conversation almost immediately proceeded to careen downhill and crash into a tree before then combusting into flames), the professor quickly decided that perhaps he should seriously reevaluate the quality of people he kept company with.  The reevaluation was short lived though, and turned rather unfavorable rather quickly, when Jim somehow directed the conversation towards the topic of Vulcan hand sensitivity-otherwise known as Vulcan hand kinks, according to Kirk-and telepathic sex.

The truly disturbing part?  Spock wasn’t even surprised.

“As riveting as this conversation has been,” He finally spoke when Jim had paused to check his comm, all the while trying to ignore the green persistently tinting his ears and cheeks.  Which was a bit of a shame, because apparently trying to will away a blush through sheer mental prowess was even harder than it sounded.  “If I am to keep my prior appointments, I must be departing.”

“Oh, yeah, of course!  But hey, before you go let me make some more of that tea of yours for you.  On the house, of course”

Spock seemed to think about it for a moment, “I would be amenable that.”

“Awesome!”

Of course, later that day, when some of his students in the front row had taken notice of the empty cup on his desk, Spock regretted his decision.  At first he didn’t understand it, the words _Now that we’re on a first name basis:_ written in red sharpie and under it a series of fourteen seemingly random numbers and letters ( _35 36 38 2d 32 33 31 2d 32 30 30 33 0d 0a);_ it wasn’t until he was already in the middle of his lecture that he understood.  The numbers were a certain _someone’s_ private line, written in hexadecimal notation, and the students sitting in the front row were… _oh…_ they were students with concentrations in computer science.  Which meant…

Which meant only one thing; if there was ever one person who would be the death of Spock, it would be Jim.  Definitely Jim.

-x-X-x-

Monday mornings were always Vulcan Spiced Tea mornings-a _lways-_ but the second Spock walked into the door, Jim seemed to know.  Spock didn’t know how, but he just did.  Because the moment the door chimed, those blues eyes were immediately boring into him with a look that Spock could never hope to decipher. Especially not when Kirk cut off the woman whose order he was taking in favor of leaning backwards and yelling, “One medium Café Americano and a cranberry-orange muffin!” at the top of his lungs.  But then his eyes flicked back over to Spock for a brief moment, teeth worrying his lip before he leaned backwards again, “Hey Sulu, scratch that!  Make it an Extra-large and _two_ cranberry-orange muffins!”

The professor inclined his head, the thank-you unspoken but not unheard.  He didn’t know how Jim knew, but he did and the idea of that, the thought of someone knowing him so well…it was not entirely unpleasant.

The deadline for semester grades was always stressful and this was no exception, especially not with so many new policies and procedures Starfleet had suddenly implemented on graduating cadets.  The results of such being, in Spock’s eyes, less than satisfactory.  Admittedly, perhaps his opinion _was_ tainted after an entire weekend of paper grading, not even stopping to sleep or meditate once, and still having two hundred papers left ungraded.  Two hundred papers in twenty four hours was eight-point-three-three papers per hour, one-hundred-sixty-sixty-point-six-six words per minute, and two-point…two-point-something words per second.

Spock fought the urge to yawn.  His eyelids felt unnaturally heavy and…and to be honest, he was exhausted.   Three days with no sleep and no meditation was extensive and tiring, even for a Vulcan. 

And so when Jim called out an Extra Large Café Americano and two Cranberry-Orange muffins for _darlin’_ and when he didn’t comment on the fact that Spock hadn’t been in for the past three days and when he didn’t look at all perturbed when Spock might’ve said something vaguely similar to, _Human and Vulcan metabolisms are drastically different; caffeine has no effect on my physiology,_ then Spock’s just might’ve felt a little lighter than usual.

But just might’ve, as Jim gave a thoughtful hum.  He was whipping a measuring cup of milk, the white liquid frothing under the electric whisk while he seemed to contemplate his answer, “Well, then what about half-Vulcan physiologies?  Caffeine do anything for them?” He finally asked with a shrug; it was worth a try.

Spock’s brow furrowed, he did not remember ever telling Jim about his true heritage.  Then again, there were a lot of things he wasn’t remembering lately.  “…I do not know.”

“Exactly,” Was the light response, followed by an airy chuckle.  Blue eyes darted up quickly from the milk, teasing smirk playing along his lips as he did.  “Though, I ain’t gonna lie, the whole messy hair, rumpled clothes, bed head look really works on you,” his smirk morphed into a grin, “Kinda cute, actually.”

“I-“ Spock started to say as heat bloomed on his cheeks and pointed ears, green slowly spreading when he pointedly snapped his mouth shut.  There was a moment where he simply stood there and stared, as if Jim’s constant flirting had finally offed the last of his brain cells.  And maybe it had.  It wasn’t too distant a theory, especially not when Spock’s brain came up with the brilliant idea of retreating and before he knew it, his body was quickly ducking away before Jim could protest, coffee and muffins secured tightly in his hand.   But just because Kirk didn’t have time to protest didn’t mean…

“See ya later, _darlin’!”_

A playful kiss was blown from the other side of the coffee shop’s display window, which Spock pretended to ignore as he quickly averted his gaze and kept walking.  He didn’t stop and he didn’t acknowledge the heat on his cheeks and he definitely didn’t acknowledge the warmth in his stomach.  And maybe - just maybe – if in the slightest chance that the corners of his lips just happened to be kinda, sorta upturned, then he blamed exhaustion.

-x-X-x-

Snow had always fascinated Spock.

Even after seventeen years living on earth, it still fascinated him.  Perhaps it was because all of those seventeen years had been spent in San Francisco, where snow was “rarer than a pig with a wings” – an opinion that had been voiced by a rather emphatic ensign earlier in the day.  And although Spock could not agree with the notion that pigs with wings were an appropriate comparison, he did share the sentiment.

Snow was rare.

“Hello Professor Spock,” A thick Russian voice eagerly called from somewhere in the back over the quiet hum of the empty kitchen and the careful murmurs of the few lounging in the lobby-like front.  “And merry Christmas!” A head of messy auburn curls finally poked out from the kitchen, a wide, almost shy smile on Chekov’s ever excitable features.

“And to you, Cadet.”

“’Zank you, Commander!”

Spock inclined his head, lips parting to give him his usual Saturday afternoon order, when a familiar yell from the back cut him off, “Hey Chekov, how many muffins we got left?”

_Jim…?_

“Five, Keptan!”

The sound of shuffling boxes and rustling plastic created a pause before, “Okay, then make sure-oh, hey Spock-sorry, back to the point.  Get another dozen in the oven before I clock out, ‘kay?”

With a sharp nod and a quick call of, “I can do ‘zat!” the young barista almost immediately darted somewhere out of sight, while Jim took his place at the register.

“He calls you Captain.”

Jim chuckled, blue eyes trained on the illuminated screen as he scratched the back of his neck, “Just an old inside joke.  Kinda stupid out of context, but whatever.”

“In my experience, that is often the case with ‘inside jokes’.”

“Yeah…” Kirk slowly responded, voice tapering off as he moved away from the register to pull the spices and strainer from the cabinet.  He carefully grabbed a porcelain coffee cup from a nearby stack of clean dishes too and set it by the thermos of hot water.  “Not gonna lie, I didn’t think you were gonna come in today.”

“No?”

“Nope.  I mean, it’s a holiday and all, so friends and family and that whole shebang, right?” Kirk carelessly shrugged.  His hands easily danced through the motions of pressing the leaves and spices into the strainer and pressing the strainer onto the top of the cup before pouring hot water over it all.

Spock watched as Jim worked with what just might have been silent admiration.  “Vulcans do not traditionally celebrate Christmas.”

There was a huff of exasperation and Spock very much imagined that Jim was rolling his eyes, “Well, duh.  I’m not _completely_ ethnocentric, y’know?” He exaggerated with a wave of his hand as he turned around with the brewing mug of tea in hand.  “But your mom was human, right?  And humans don’t just let go of traditions willy-nilly, they’re important to us and stuff, so don’t tell me you’ve _never_ celebrated Christmas.”

Spock paused to contemplate his answer, “It is true that saying I have never celebrated Christmas would be inaccurate.”

“Exactly,” Jim said with a grin, “So my assumption stands as reasonable.”

“Perhaps.”

“So why aren’t you then?”

Spock cocked his head to the side and his brow creased only in the slightest, “’Why aren’t I’ what?”

“Y’know.  Friends, family, the whole shebang; why aren’t you doing it?”

“Seeing as I have no cultural attachment to the holiday, I do not see why your question holds relevance,” Spock simply stated, voice completely blank and face completely clean of emotion.  Which was a dead give-away, really, and Jim knew it too.  He knew that when Spock’s face was blank and his voice was blank that his mind was anything but.  “However, if you must ask, those who I do tend to safely cite as ‘friends’ were otherwise engaged.   As for my own family, it has been many years since I last spoke to my father.”

A wry chuckle escaped from Jim’s lips, the last response Spock had been expecting.  “Funny, I think we might be kindred spirits.  How’d you like the sound of that?” He cheekily grinned as he leaned over the table.

“Not very well.”

“Again with the wounding.”

If Spock were human, he would have sighed.  _If_ he were human, that was.  “Perhaps you are simply sensitive.”

An indignant noise seemed to dislodge itself from Jim’s throat as he pushed off the counter.  Nothing was actually said though, when the strainer was removed from the tea and the cup and saucer slid across the counter to the half-Vulcan.  The tea was taken with the usual inclined head and usual satisfactory nod, even if the grunt Jim gave as he did so was hardly usual and even if it did sound oddly like _stupid bastard._ Either way, Jim was retreating towards the back with the strainer and used leaves anyways, so moot point. 

Spock sipped at the tea; perfect as usual.

“Hey, before I forget, Merry Christmas, _tee-hal,”_ Jim smiled as his eyes trained on Spock’s hands that were tightly clasping the warm tea. “I left your gift at home, so sorry about that, but I didn’t think I’d see you, so yeah.”

“My gift?” Spock’s eyebrows slightly raised, shock clearly apparent in his swirling brown eyes.

Jim cocked his head to the side, gaze wondering if he had done something wrong.  “You sound surprised.” 

Spock’s gaze briefly darted downwards; he had not gotten Jim anything.  It was an unacceptable error on his part; if he was intent on expanding his cultural perspective then it was imperative that he participate in said culture’s traditions and norms.   Participation was one of the most efficient means of learning, after all, and so it would have been only right for him to purchase a gift for Jim.  For his friend.

Spock’s gut felt oddly cold and his stomach dropped in the slightest.  It was an unacceptable lapse on his part.  And yet when he said as much, the barista merely shrugged.

“I didn’t expect you to, to be honest.  It’s fine.  I just wanted to get something for you, okay?  Because we…you and me, we’re friends, right?”

Jim looked nervous.  Maybe a little desperate.

And Spock didn’t look like anything, which meant volumes more than any facial expression ever could.  Perhaps he was not nervous, but the stiffness in his posture suggested so much.  That he was uncomfortable and a little startled and very unsure and- 

“Earlier you mentioned that you had assumed I would not be visiting today; your assumption was not unfounded.  Originally, my plans for today involved attending a symphonic performance tonight with another, but a conflict arose in their schedule.  I found myself with time otherwise unoccupied and thus, I am here however…. However, I still intend to attend the performance, but it would be illogical to waste a ticket that has already been paid for, therefore if you are agreeable…”

Jim’s grin grew, almost cat-like in nature as he rested his chin on his open palm.  “Are you asking me out on a date?”

The typical eyebrow was raised, the typical parade rest given, “Hardly.  I am far more selective in my partners than that, I assure you.”

“Why, Mr. Spock, I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just say that because how could I ever resist such a compelling offer?”

Spock tilted his head; Jim’s tone said one thing and his words another, an additional idiosyncrasy of Standard. “You are being sarcastic?”

Jim softly smiled, “A little.  I’m completely serious about going with you.  Sounds fun,” He paused to tap a few things into the register, “But your delivery needs serious work.”

A statement made only slightly less insulting by cultural barriers.  Spock didn’t know what delivery quite referred to and he didn’t know who was delivering what to whom, but he did know that Jim’s statement was meant to be insulting.  And it was.  His spine bristled almost immediately and his gaze hardened almost the second the words left Jim’s mouth.  He didn’t say anything, because what _could_ he say, but that didn’t keep his body language from speaking volumes.

And if Kirk’s snickering was any indication, the message was being received.  Even as he pulled the apron from his body and slipped into a gray trench coat, his blue eyes kept drifting over to Spock.  As he pulled gloves and ear muffs from his pockets with a slight smirk and slipped them on in sloppy movements that lacked precision.

It was completely silent between them, nothing needing to be said when Kirk nodded his head and they left side by side.  It wasn’t until they came to the doorway that that changed, when a hand curled Spock’s wrist and he was immediately stopped in his tracks by a, “Hey Spock.”  The tone was teasing and light; never a good thing with Jim, Spock was fairly sure.

And the cool lips that were pressed to his cheek seconds later seemed to only confirm that.  It was quick and sudden and over with before it had started.  Nothing more than the cool press of fleeting skin and the light press of buzzing mind, the whole thing far too innocent to ever come from Jim –but it had.  It was Jim and had been him and Spock almost didn’t know how to react to that.

So he didn’t.  He simply stood there and stared in half shock and half confusion, but mostly confusion.

Kirk’s grin widened and he gave a suggestive wink as he pointed towards the ceiling, “Mistletoe,” before walking past Spock and onto the snow-covered sidewalk, as if it were perfectly normal to blindly follow the lead of mistletoe in all her plant-like glory.  And perhaps for Jim, it was.  At least that much would not have been unexpected. 

Because Jim…well, Jim was Jim plain and simple.

And because of that, when Spock found a Japanese Peace Lily sitting outside of his apartment door two days later, a note attached to the pot, he was not surprised.

It wasn’t until later that the real surprise came, and it wasn’t even due to Jim.  The surprise came when Spock found _himself_ outside of Jim’s apartment early the next morning.  He did not ring the doorbell and he did not leave a note; instead, he left a book.  A book called _A Guide Of Translations: From Spock to Standard in Only a Thousand Easy Steps,_ given with the mindset of _‘you need it more than me’,_ because a gift from Spock would be nothing without logic.  It was completely logical, the entire thing, even when he came in the next day and saw Jim leaning against the counter, reading that book and the feeling that swelled in his chest was definitely not happiness.

Because that would’ve been illogical.

-x-X-x-

“Jim?”

When he walked in and saw the 3D chess set on the counter, the initial reaction was confusion. 

“Oh, hey-” _Thunk!_ “-Ow!” A curse rang out from the back room and almost instantly the professor’s eyebrows were skyrocketing towards his bangs.  All in all, nothing unusual.

“Jim, is everything-?”

“I’m fine!  Shit, I’m fine,” He called as he stepped out into the front of the store carrying a large cardboard box, eyebrows scrunched and hand tenderly rubbing the back of his head.  “Got thunked by a shelf, sorry about that.  You’re early today, _psihimou._ ”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed.”

“I was unaware,” He responded before gesturing towards the chess set, “Similar to how I was unaware that you played.” Even though he should not have been surprised, considering this _was_ the person who had given Spock his private line using hexadecimal notation. 

“Really? Didn’t know that you played either…for a while at least.  I’ve been meaning to bring her up here for a while now though, wanted to see if you’d like to play but I kept forgetting.”

There was a pause as Spock skeptically stared at him.  “ _Her?”_

“Well, yeah,” Jim responded with the tone of voice one might use when saying ‘ _duh’,_ “Chess sets have feelings too, y’know?”

“That…Jim…” Well…Spock didn’t quite know what to say to that.  There was almost nothing he _could_ say, not to something so…so…so senseless.  And illogical. And nonsensical. And a lot of other derogatory-sounding adjectives.  “To call your ideal illogical would be a gross understatement, Jim.  I have never understood the purpose behind referring to inanimate objects with animate pronouns.” 

“Now, now,” The barista playfully admonished as he wiped his hands on his apron.  “Just because you don’t understand something, doesn’t automatically make it illogical.  And I’ll have you know her name is Carol and she would really like it if you called her as such.  She’s a touchy one.”

The heavy puff of breath Spock released was most certainly not a sigh.  Not at all.  Not even a little.  Because a Vulcan would never sigh and Spock was nothing if not Vulcan.  “Jim, it is a chess set and I refuse to refer to it as anything else.”

“So that means you’ll play?” The blond charmingly smiled as he leaned against the counter separating them, elbows resting on the sleek surface and chin resting on curled up palms.  “I mean, it’s not every day I get the chance to try my luck with a Grandmaster.”

“How…” Spock paused, “How do you know I was a Grandmaster?”

The barista shrugged; never a good sign.  “Starfleet has really sucky defenses against hackers.”

Like most things when it came to Jim, Spock shouldn’t have been surprised.  Really, he shouldn’t have.  It was Jim and Jim wouldn’t be Jim if he didn’t hack into restricted files and didn’t break through supposedly impenetrable firewalls.  He shouldn’t have been surprised at all, but he was.  And even if his tone didn’t show it, his eyebrows sure as hell did. “You _hacked_ into Starfleet?”

“Oh come on, don’t give me that look!  It was, like, forever ago.” Kirk snorted as he wiped the counter down with a rag.

“Define ‘forever ago’.”

“A few months,” A pointed look was given and the barista rolled his eyes, “Okay, like, four.  Happy?  It was after I figured out you were Starfleet and I was curious, so sue me.”

Spock’s eyes flicked downwards.  “I would rather not, however Starfleet may not be as forgiving,” Was what he wanted to say.  It was what he _should’ve_ said and it was what he was prepared to say because there was simply no excuse.  An illegal activity was an illegal activity and it was as simple as that. 

Except that it really wasn’t.

Because the words never came.

Spock knew what the proper thing to do was; report the incident to his superiors and perhaps even stand in front of a jury if necessary.  The proper thing to do, however, was not to hesitate.  To let his eyes flash upwards and let his vision linger there longer than it should have.  His duty was to detach himself from emotion and to say what needed to be said, so when his lips parted and he said the exact opposite, it was a very curious phenomenon indeed.  “I am not against a game of chess, if you are not opposed.”

And when a bright grin and a twinkling expression was sent his way in response, Spock regretted nothing.

-x-X-x-

Friday, February Twenty third was most certainly a Café Americano day.  It was a _Trenti_ Café Americano day, actually.  With two cranberry-orange muffins on the side - just to be sure, of course. 

Not that it was doing much good, as Spock idly took a drink from his almost empty mug.  Because the struggle to keep his eyes open was still there and the idea of leaning his cheek against his palm and just drifting still sounded far too good.  It was a battle that had been over before it had even started, in all honesty.  Which was slightly perplexing, because why Spock was battling an abstract ideal that was a natural imperative, he did not know, and why he-

Whatever.

Just…whatever.

Spock practically threw his PADD down onto the table with a thunk, not even caring about propriety as he did so.  Not that it mattered much, since the café was empty anyways – like any usual Friday night, that was.  There wasn’t soul in sight except for the one floating somewhere in the background, cleaning up the kitchen or whatever it was Jim did when closing; again, another usual Friday. 

Except that it really wasn’t.

Because usually Friday nights were spent staying until closing, playing games of chess as Spock logically squashed Kirk’s not-so-logical musings.  Except for the times they didn’t play chess, when they would read the latest articles on advanced programming and computer science with wry looks on their (Jim’s) faces or when they would sometimes just sit there because Fridays were long and talking was overrated anyways.  That was what usually happened, but September Twenty-Third wasn’t a usual Friday.  Because usually Spock didn’t procrastinate.  Usually he didn’t wait until the weekend before his annual presentation to the board was due to finish it.  And usually he didn’t have fifty papers to grade on top of that. 

And usually, Spock didn’t find himself hunched over in the corner with PADDs littering the table in front of him.  Usually his eyes didn’t ache from staring at glowing screens all day and usually his back didn’t hurt from so much sitting.  Even for a Vulcan- _especially_ for a Vulcan-four days without sleep was pushing it.  Really pushing it, if the fact that falling asleep on the mound of PADDs before him sounded oddly appealing was any indication.  And it was.

The unusually soft clanking of dishes being put up drifted from the kitchen, but Spock didn’t seem to notice – Vulcan super-hearing and all.  Just another testament to his exhaustion perhaps.  Or perhaps it was a testament to Jim and his otherwise questionable ability to be anything other than obnoxiously loud.  Because, well, it was almost as if he were actually trying to be quiet, a sentiment that would’ve been touching if Spock had actually been attentive enough to notice (not to mention, if Spock hadn’t been, well, himself) and if Jim hadn’t been under the threat of Vulcan nerve pinches already.  Apparently, even he had finally figured out that when Spock needed coffee, he also needed silence.

And if the surprisingly quiet clanks of dishes didn’t attest to that, then the otherwise silence of the café did.  The oven wasn’t ticking, the microwave wasn’t buzzing, the espresso maker wasn’t humming, the coffee pot not churning and the blenders not whirring.  It was quiet, except for the soft, smooth jazz playing over the speakers.

 “Spock?”

The half-Vulcan’s head popped up, squinting when he saw that most of the shop’s lights were off, the food put away and Jim’s _Enterprise Café_ apron hanging over his arm.  It was an unacceptable lapse in attention on his part, to notice such vital shifts in scenery with such delay.  “…Jim?”  His voice was gravelly with sleep and exhaustion.  It rumbled in his chest and was uncomfortably reminiscent to someone who might have a cold.

“It’s 10:15, store’s all closed up.  I’m gonna go home, okay?” He softly explained as he readjusted the strap on his messenger bag, “And you should too-go home, I mean.  And sleep.  I don’t think Vulcans are supposed to have bags under their eyes; has to be some kind of safety hazard, y’know?”

If Spock were to honest, there had been no conscience decision behind the action.  Or at least, if there was one, he didn’t remember it.  His attempt to push himself off the table and from the chair, to try and stand had not exactly been well thought out.  And it showed, because most well thought out, logics, planned, and wise decisions did not end in face plants.  Just as a general rule.

“Whoa there.”

Or at least, almost-face plants, as it seemed.

Because one moment Spock felt dizzy and his legs felt weak and standing was suddenly a lot harder than he ever remembered it being and then the next there were these arms holding him up and this body bracing his and he wasn’t face planting, which should never be considered a bad thing.

“I got, ya’.  Don’t worry, I got ya’,” Jim breathily murmured onto Spock’s flushing cheek.  Their eyes were locked, unreadable looks within them both, as breath puffed from their lips a little more rapidly and a little more airily than either would have liked.  Spock’s body was still leaned against Jim’s and they were almost as close as could be without kissing; neither seemed quite able (or willing) to change that.  “Hate for you to hit that pretty little head of yours, _ashayam.”_

“I do believe thank you would be an appropriate response.”

The breathy chuckle Spock received in reply was perplexing, but not as much as the verbal one.  Then again, perhaps Spock was just tired.  “No problem, just…are you sure you should… I mean, you kinda look rough, a bit like hell and I - uh, wait, that came out wrong.  I mean…”  Jim chewed at his bottom lip with pearly teeth and Spock couldn’t help but think that _something_ in his eyes was shifting as his grip tightened in the slightest, “It works on you, it really does.  The I-didn’t-take-a-shower-didn’t-wash-my-hair-woke-up-and-threw-on-some-clothes look looks good and it’s…it’s pretty damn adorable.  Especially when your hair’s all rumpled and your ears are green and you’re looking at me like we’re speaking two completely different languages.  You don’t look like hell, just tired.  I mean, not bad tired because not all tired is bad just…tired.  Exhausted, more of and I’m rambling, aren’t I?  Don’t answer that, actually.”

A beat of silence followed, where Spock simply stared and Jim made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“Never mind, just forget about it.  What I meant to say was that you probably shouldn’t be walking home like this and you really should let me drive you there, okay?  I get it, you’re a private person and you don’t have to feel obligated to let me in or anything and I promise not to be any more of a stalker than I already am, just…like I said, you look fucking exhausted and you can barely walk and you need some goddamn sleep.”

“Ji-”

“Just let me do this for you, okay?” His tone was so pleading and Spock… How could Spock…?

“…Okay.”

“What?”  He lightly smiled, “No ‘I would find that most satisfactory’ or ‘I would be amenable to that suggestion’?”

A bristling noise rose in the half-Vulcan’s throat, “I felt ‘okay’ was sufficient.”  In other words, he was too tired to think of anything else. 

“Right, of course you did,” Jim brushed it off with a wave.  He insisted Spock sit as he went to collect his messenger bag, haphazardly stuffing PADDs in as he went.  He also insisted that Spock let him carry both of their bags, because Jim _“…was definitely the guy in this relationship…”_ even though, Spock was still fairly certain the blonde’s belief that tired Vulcans were safety hazards might have had something to do with it.  But what either of those things had to do with anything, Spock didn’t know.  Not that he was hardly in any state to be arguing anyways.

And that same thing could be said for much later, not long after Jim had dropped him off, when Spock opened his messenger bag with every intention of ignoring Jim’s demands that he sleep.  He could sleep when he was dead, the half-Vulcan often feigned. 

Except that when he actually opened his bag, it was empty.

The PADDs were missing and Spock just _knew_.  He didn’t even bother searching the apartment because he was so sure of it, instead opting to fall asleep on the couch.   And when he woke up the next day, sure enough, there were three stacks of PADDs sitting on his counter with a cup of Shas-savas tea next to it. _You’re welcome, sweetheart_ was written on the cup and a sticky note with a smiley face drawn on it had been left on top of the PADDs, both briefly ignored in favor of resuming Spock’s hardly forgotten work.

Except that, in a manner not very much different to when he had opened his messenger bag the other night, there was no more work to finish. 

Every single paper had been graded, all fifty of them submitted with intelligent feedback and everything, and somehow his presentation had mysteriously morphed from a plain document of clear but brief notes to an expansive and flowery video with pictures and citations and everything he would need and more.  It was all rather impressive.

Perhaps a tad exasperating too, considering it the whole ordeal went against practically every moral bone in Spock’s body, but impressive nonetheless. 

The half-Vulcan set the PADD down, instead turning his attention to the still-warm cup of tea-brewed to perfection, as always-as drew his communicator from the coffee table.  Spock had never been one to expressively show gratitude, finding the whole ideal illogical, but sometimes…

Sometimes there were exceptions.

-x-X-x-

For the first time in far too long, Thursday was a normal day. 

There were no papers to grade or lectures to attend or presentations to finish.  It was simply…a Thursday and Spock did not mind that.  When he stepped into the coffee shop he did not bother to get in line, instead he immediately headed towards the circle naturally crowding around the sign that read _pick-up orders here_.  The almost simultaneous yell of his usual Thursday morning order answered why.

The first time it had happened, Spock had quirked an eyebrow and stared at Jim as if he were crazy, an appropriate reaction he had thought at the time.  Of course, it hadn‘t changed anything given Jim’s irritating penchant for aggravating grins and salacious winks, and it definitely hadn’t stopped his order from being called first.  Naturally, Spock had tilted his head to the side and desperately tried to ignore the kiss that was blown his way.  Even though, if the heat on his cheeks had had any say in it, that had been one particular endeavor he had hardly succeeded in.

But now it was a routine, no matter how many times Spock insisted Jim serve the customers who arrived first with their orders first.  Because it didn’t matter how many times Spock told Jim that, because the number of times he had told him that was also the number of times Jim had promptly ignored him.

“Large Vulcan Spice Tea for…for teh…tee-hi...um…tee…oh goddamnit Jim!  Stop giving your boyfriend these fucking pet names no one can pronounce!  His name’s Spock, for Christ’s sake and I have better things to do than try to fucking figure out how to pronounce this, okay _?!_ I don’t know Vulcan or Romulan or whatever the hell this is!  Next time write his actual name, you dickhead!”

Now, Jim had always had a habit of flustering Spock, that was undeniable, but this… He could feel the heat on his cheeks and he was sure that his face had never been so damn green in his entire life.  Instantly his body began to tense and a sneaking suspicion began to poke him.  It was growing, this suspicion, and as it did Spock’s mouth was ever so slightly parting in what had to be a Vulcan gasp or something.  His gaze was widening, startled and shocked and confused…but Jim.  He wouldn’t.  Would he? 

No.  Of course not.  He would… He would…

Jim’s coworker looked confused. 

Spock looked a little shocked, the coworker looked confused and Jim looked as carefree as ever.  He chuckled as usual and took the cup of tea from his colleague, also as usual, but when he did Spock’s vision was pointedly not on him.  Which was not usual.  It was pointedly focused in on the clock at the other side of the room, and that _really_ wasn’t usual.  Neither was the way his gut churned uncomfortably in his stomach.  Probably (maybe, a little, probably not) something he ate.

“One medium Vulcan Spiced Tea and a blueberry muffin for _T’hyla!”_

Oh.

That…

Spock’s gaze instantly snapped over to Jim, eyes wide and shocked and unmoving and _human._ He suspected it, sure, but he didn’t _believe_ it and he didn’t _want_ to believe it because that…

The churning got worse.  His chest felt tight, which was odd and he floundered for words but none came and…and before he knew it he was ducking his head and grabbing his order from Jim so briskly it could be considered rude.  And not once did their eyes meet, even though Spock could feel Jim’s searching for his and even though his own hands were twisting at the hem of his large sweater like he wanted…

_Oh._

And when Spock practically bolted through those glass doors, he didn’t look back.  Not even once.

-x-X-x-

“Hey there stranger.”

Spock swallowed, but not visibly, “Hello, Jim.”

The barista smiled and almost instantly Spock’s spine was straightening.  His head cocked to the side and his mouth slightly opened, as if grasping for words. 

“It’s been a bit.  You weren’t in here Friday.  Or Saturday.  Or Sunday.  Or Monday.  Or Tuesday.”

But he didn’t sound angry.  Which was…peculiar.  Spock had expected anger and he had been prepared for anger.  Anger was within the normal realm of reactions, _this_ however was not.  This sly smirk and those teasingly light words – as if he knew something that Spock didn’t – they were neither expected nor anticipated.  They were not normal, not among human standards and especially not among Jim standards.  But Spock was not stupid, and so when he gave his reply, it was with the anticipation that anger was just resting under the surface.  That any moment it would come forth and the only manner in which to quell it would be with the words Jim _wanted_ to hear.

“I apologize.”

Words that were not necessarily the truth.  It wasn’t a lie, because to some degree there was truth in it.  Spock _was_ sorry for the anger he knew Jim was experiencing and he _was_ sorry for the consequences of that anger, but he was not sorry for the need to meditate.  And he was not sorry for the need to have a clear mind or for the need to put his work first.  He was not sorry for what was merely natural.

Or at least, what he considered to be natural and Nyota (and Gaila, and Pike, and that one Lieutenant-Commander who taught Intro to XenoBiology, and several others who had no business sticking their noses into his personal matters) considered to be bullshit.  Spock claimed semantics. 

“I have been busy,” He finally finished, trying to ignore the clearly amused look Jim was giving him.

“Uh-huh.  I’m _sure_ you were,” The barista almost flippantly said, voice sounding hardly convinced.  He seemed to wait for a moment, looking over Spock with an expectant expression, “I actually kinda missed you, y’know.  You made work seem less…work-like.”

And that really made Spock blink, made his brow barely scrunch as he stared at Jim.  There was no way to respond to that, no words to be said to something so…illogical.

Silence fell between them.  A heavy silence only made heavier when Jim’s expression shifted from expectant to exasperated all in one.  “God, you’re impossible,” was what Spock swore he heard as the blond pushed away from the counter and got a measuring cup from the sink.  “Do you remember that one time you ordered a Cappuccino with no foam?”

Spock hesitated, stance minutely shifting before he spoke, “If I am not mistaken it was on a Thursday and your response was almost frighteningly akin to ‘girl, you did not just order a no foam cappuccino ‘.”

“First off, its fucking creepy when you quote me all monotone-like.  Secondly, it’s cute when you blush.” Jim sniggered as he poured milk into a measuring cup.

“I am hardly blushing; it is merely below the standard temperature tolerated by my physiology within this establish-”

 “Yeah, whatever you say,” Kirk briskly waved off with a roll of his eyes, “Anyways, that isn’t the point.  Because believe it or not there’s actually a point to this and don’t you even think about interrupting me until I’m done.  Got it?” He paused, as if waiting for Spock to say something, “Good.  The point is that you ordered a cappuccino with no foam, which is really stupid because a cappuccino with no foam is just another way to say a latte, which, thanks to me, now you know.  Plain and simple, right?  Except that at first you were kinda pissy-and I don’t need to turn to around to know the look you’re totally giving me, you were so pissy,” He briefly called over his shoulder with a wink Spock barely managed to catch.  “But you ordered this cappuccino which was really a latte and when I questioned you, you got all sardonic and pedantic because god forbid should you ever be anything less than right and – You have no idea where I’m going with this, do you?”

“I…” Spock paused, eyebrows raised in undeniable confusion as he took a step forward.  And another step.  And another.  All until he was standing in front of the counter, watching as Jim frothed and stretched the milk with meticulous care, “I must confess that I do not.”

“My point is that you ordered one thing and didn’t know that what you were asking for was another thing entirely and when I told you that, you bristled and got all high-and-mighty on me and for a second there I had sworn I had run you off.  Again,” Jim explained as if that should make everything obvious.  Which it didn’t, because Spock was still looking at him like he was crazy.  And maybe he was.  “And you _still_ don’t get the point, do you?”

“Jim, I…” Spock’s voice faltered, words slipping from him like grains of sand.  Obscure metaphors had never been his forte, not when his mother had used them and not when Nyota had used them, and he had a feeling they weren’t particularly Jim’s either.

“That’s what I thought.” And then he was slamming the measuring cup on the counter and turning around and shaking his head, like all of this was Spock’s fault. 

And _that_ Spock could understand.  It wasn’t uncommon for a human to misappropriate blame when frustrated and he knew that.  He understood that.  What he didn’t understand though, were teasing grins and odd metaphors that had no place being there.  Things that did nothing but irritate Spock, as if _he_ were the irrational human prone to bouts of emotion.  And in some ways he kinda was, because if Spock was going to be honest, he was a little annoyed and very frustrated and he truly should’ve stayed home.  He should’ve turned his back on the entire thing, but should’ve and could’ve where two entirely different matters.

“You know what, Spock?  Screw it – screw it all to hell.”

“Pardo-”

“I know what _T’hy’la_ means.”

Oh. 

Well.

“That’s what this is about, right?  I mean, it’s not like it’s a coincidence, y’know?  That the day I call you _t’hy’la_ is the day you can’t get out of here fucking fast enough.  Doesn’t help your case that you kinda disappeared for a while there, does it?”

Silence was his only response, but from the way Kirk just kept talking, it didn’t seem as though he was expecting one anyways.  “If it makes it any better I didn’t know what it meant at the time, I just thought it was a regular term of endearment like ‘sweetheart’ or whatever.  Stupid, I know.  Anyways, I didn’t know for a while, until,” Jim paused to chuckle, the sound almost unbelieving in nature, “Until, well, you have really nosy friends.  You know that?”

Spock’s stomach instantly dropped.

“One of them came by-well, actually a couple of them came by, but this one was the normal one.  The other two…one tried to recruit me for fucking Starfleet and the other…well, let’s just say I never pictured you as the type to be friends with Gaila Vro and leave it at that, so yeah.  In summary, you have an interesting taste in friends.  Anyways, that’s not my point.  The normal one,”

Uhura. 

“She was a linguist, I think?”

Most certainly Uhura.  Spock breathed in deeply, hands clutching at his pants and his gaze cautiously drifting upwards towards Jim’s.

“Had to have been a linguist.  She told me what it meant, Spock.”

Their eyes locked and between them this look passed, a glimmering of eyes that neither quite knew what to do with.

“She said some other stuff too,” Jim shrugged, teeth worrying on his bottom lip.  The drink he had been making was abandoned in favor of clutching the counter, knuckles turning white with the effort.  “And, well, I get it.  I guess.  Maybe.  I don’t know.  It’s just…this whole thing is so fucking stupid.  _T’hy’la_ is a word.  I mean yeah, it has cultural significance and I get that, but it’s still just a fucking word.    And what she told me?  She said – actually… fuck what she said.  All due respect and all, but it doesn’t matter what she said because maybe she’s right but maybe she’s not and I don’t care about that.  It’s a fucking word and…I… God, I’m so bad at this.  Just…”

And when Jim’s gaze met Spock’s, there was defiance in those eyes.

“Just…sometimes you are so stupid.  Because I don’t care what _t’hy’la_ means and I don’t…I don’t-Oh, fuck it already!”

And _that_ was when James T. Kirk leaned across the counter, grabbed Spock by the sweater and kissed him.  Hard and bruising and so very, very _human._ The fact that a counter was between them didn’t seem to deter him at all, not when Spock jolted in shock as a tongue traced the seam of his lips and a hand grappled with the fabric covering his shoulder.  It was so sudden and quick and Spock’s head hurt and his heart hammered in his side and then he was tentatively parting his lips with this hesitant noise and Jim wasn’t wasting any time.  As if they had already wasted enough time not doing this, a full year of not doing _this,_ and that was time that needed to be made up.  Jim’s hand grabbed at the back of Spock’s neck, fingers soothingly running through the little hairs there as a tongue pressed into all the right places at all the right times.

Perfect. 

It was so, so, so perfect.  And that was when something sparked in his stomach and flared to life in his mind, when every single wall and defense he had ever built came tumbling down.  Emotions and thoughts and feelings flooded his mind- _wantwantwantsobadlywant-_ with the force of a whirlwind that turned everything on its side; suddenly up was down and down was up and Spock just didn’t know anymore.  The lines of what was what and who’s thoughts were who’s were disappearing as Kirk continued to coax him with those warm lips.  Spock’s hands were fisted into the Jim’s apron and his eyes were squeezed shut; it was all so much.  Too much.   The blonde’s tongue smoothed over the contours of his mouth in such enticing ways and together with the flood of everything that was _Jim_ invading his subconscious, Spock’s legs were shaking far more than any Vulcans legs should ever shake and his head felt far lighter than it ever ought to.  Hands carded through his hair and murmurs of appreciation were pressed to his lips in rushed movements of teeth and tongue and nipping and biting and smoothing and so much more that Spock couldn’t even begin to describe.

“You kept all the receipts,” Was the first thing Jim murmured when he pulled away to rest his forehead against Spock’s and unsteadily gasp for breath.  “I accidentally found the drawer you kept them in last time I was over.  That’s cute.”

“What?”  Spock airily asked, unable to think with how Jim’s mind was buzzing against his.

“All the receipts I wrote on, you kept them.  The other ones, the ones I didn’t write on you threw out or at least kept them somewhere else.  Did you save the cup sleeves too by any chance, because that would be awesome,” A weak but genuine smile was given, “I mean, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you were infatuated with me.”

“I am not-”

“Because I’m kinda infatuated with you,” Jim slowly pulled away from Spock and as he did the whirlwind retreated.  And Spock…he felt raw, with nothing but himself left as Jim backed away from the counter and threw his hands up in… _something._   It was a lot like the look on his face, almost like he was lost and didn’t know what to do.  But Spock couldn’t be sure, “You’re a serious smartass and sometimes a dick and sometimes I kinda wanna hit you you’re so infuriating and stubborn but you’re a damn riot and those sweaters you wear are fucking ugly but I kinda like them,” Jim was pacing, running one hand through his hair and using the other to gesture animatedly.  His words were slurred though, getting faster and faster with each rushed phrase. “And I kinda like you too.  You’re adorable when you’re tired and fucking terrifying when you’re pissy and exasperating when you’re sardonic and I…I, maybe I like you, you miserable bastard.” A breathe was given, his shoulders slumping as he forced himself to a stop and forced himself to stare at Spock and to place his palms on either side of the register.  His eyes were tsunamis, maelstroms of emotion and feeling and searching, searching _please tell me this isn’t just me_.  “And maybe…maybe we are…this weird Vulcan bond or whatever being a _t’hy’la_ really is.  Maybe we could be that or maybe we already are, but maybe we aren’t-hell, we probably aren’t, to be honest- and maybe we never will be and I’m okay with that.  And maybe…” He paused, eyes uncertain as he continued chewing on his bottom lip, “Maybe, one day, I could love you and maybe I already do-I don’t know.  But I never fucking will if we just sit around and twiddle our thumbs and never do anything about it.  I’m-we’re-we’re never gonna know unless we stop dancing around the other and actually act on this-whatever the hell _this_ is.  And I know, you’re so out of my league it isn’t even funny and I’m so bad at this relationship stuff it isn’t even funny either, but…” He swallowed, eyes nervously darting as he licked his lips.  “Will you go on a date with me?  Because I’m fucking tired of not knowing and I’d be completely surprised if you weren’t either.  So just-just do it.  Go out with me, just once.  On a proper date.  Like, old-fashioned, dinner at a restaurant and a movie and all that shit.”

A beat.

Nothing but the sound of heavy breathing.

“Sorry, I got-I-I ramble, a lot, okay?  But you should already know that by now, so yeah…I’m just gonna shut up now.”

“Speaking from personal experience, I find that incredibly hard to believe,” Spock slowly said, brown eyes never leaving Jim’s flushed cheeks and parted lips and shining eyes.  “However, if rambling is what it takes for you to make a point, then I believe that to be a far more efficient means of communication than your past attempts.  I still fail to comprehend the meaning behind your earlier metaphor.”

“I-” And then Jim was chuckling.  And then he was laughing and holding his side and just looking at Spock because this whole thing was so fucking crazy and he just couldn’t believe it.  “Yeah, it was stupid.  Not even my damn metaphor.”

“Nyota.”  The fact that that wasn’t a question was a little frightening.  The fact that Jim could only chuckle and shake his head only more so.

“Was that her name?” Spock nodded his head, “I pegged her as a Destiny, oh well.  Anyways, that’s still the last time I take relationship advice from one of your friends.” And then Jim gave him this _look._ “So, about that date…?” And this look…it wasn’t a look Spock had ever associated with Jim.  It was questioning and curious and _something_ and it was always a look he associated with Nyota, if anyone.  It was a look he never quite knew what to do with and an expression he never had been able to decipher…

Until now.

“The restaurant will have to be vegetarian.”

“Spock…” And then it was gone, that look, as quickly as it had gotten there.  It disappeared and was replaced by a wide grin as Jim leaned forwards, “Did you just agree to go out with me?”

“And I will be picking the movie, your taste when in reference to cinematic works is questionable at best.”

“Holy shit,” Jim stared; eyes wide and breathing harsh as he took in the sight that was Spock.  The only person in the entire Alpha Quadrant who, even with swollen, green-tinted lips and a still slightly breathless voice, could still manage to sound as unimpressed as ever.  “You really are.  You’re agreeing.”

But of course the half-Vulcan just kept talking, acting as if the barista had never said a thing.  “I have heard of several favorable reviews regarding several different cinematic selections available, I am certain we can find one based on those recommendations.”

Spock had never given much merit to destiny.

“This is really happening.  Holy fuck, Spock, you’re…god, you’re insane.”

It was nothing more than wishful thinking and half born fantasies.

“Tomorrow.  Are you free tomorrow?  Because if you are, then definitely tomorrow.”

That had been his opinion a year ago, when he had walked into a small coffee shop on a handful of questionable recommendations and a very human craving for a Chai Tea Latte, and it was still his opinion.  Spock did not believe in destiny and he did not believe in fate, because Spock believed only in what he could see.

“I believe that I could be amenable to tomorrow.”

And Jim…Jim he could see.

**Author's Note:**

> On a side note, the Hot Fuzz references were far too easy to resist. I mean, it's just...just so damn perfect!  
> Also, I would like to thank my lovely, lovely muse [expelliar-moose](http://www.expelliar-moose.tumblr.com) over on tumblr. She is fantastic and amazing and I love bouncing ideas off of her. Go give her some love, why don't you?


End file.
